


Permanent shelter

by Lyquoritte



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Jeanmarco Month 2018, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Refugees, Titan Jean Kirstein, Writer Marco Bott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyquoritte/pseuds/Lyquoritte
Summary: JeanMarco Month 2018 – The Generator 2Titan!Jean and writer!Marco are in an arranged engagement. Jean is rebuilding his life after the apocalypse and Marco is so in love.





	Permanent shelter

I think the best way to tell this story is starting from the middle –how we met is not important, and whatever will happen next I can only guess. The middle, however, does not mean right now. It is just a general idea of our present situation, something we live with everyday, a story we write every minute, every second, together.

Though, if you really must know, right now I am just watching how he nurses himself a cup of tea, while I find in him the words to write this story, our story.

It is a calm we do not find often. This one is just a temporary shelter, like many others, that we will be forced to leave behind soon enough. It is a brutal change from before, and Jean is still not used to it, but he is getting better. I see it in his movements, slowly regaining the grace they lost, and in the way he holds me at night, slightly more relaxed each time. He lives in a constant fear, just like I do, the only difference being that he once had, long ago, the comfort of a stable life.

Being the lone remaining son of the former Royal Family is a heavy burden, one Jean always carries while claiming to hate it. He changed his surname and burnt his old clothes in a fit of rage, but it stuck. He did not take my surname, but he borrows my shirts and lets me do his hair. Remembering what he once had is tricky. Sometimes he breaks down, when we come across other refugees; he cries and tells me about how he could have given away everything he had owned, how others could have made use of it. Other times I find him longing for the comfort of that life he left behind, missing his family and the bliss of ignorance.

He not even once says he regrets running away with me, though.

Ours is a relationship planned by our parents to unify two families that no longer exist, forged in a society that no longer exists. It holds no meaning, not any longer, so Jean could have left me long ago. He could have decided not to burn his belongings; he could have packed and taken the first boat to the north. Or maybe, I could have left. I could have taken the chance to leave behind a life built on lies and strained smiles, on false security and suspiciously earned money. And in a sense, I did. The only thing that still remains from that time is Jean, and none of us have left.

The truth is I love him, and he loves me too.

I know this, because his flawless hands have learnt how to massage mine after hours of writing; because his voice sounds happier when he talks about me; because his body relaxes when I place my hands on his shoulders; because he always stands between me and other refugees that have taken a more hostile way of life; because, when the steam rising from his wounds reminds him of what his family turned him into, he always looks for me, and I make sure to be there for him.

He is my permanent shelter, everything I have, and he has told me it is the same for him.


End file.
